Hangman
by Rosetta Stone
Summary: Ezra is accused of murder, and the rest of the Seven let the posse take him without a fight. Betrayal and outrage doesn't beging to explain Ezra's emotions. Will the others let him down, and let him die? Reviews welcome!
1. Chapter 1

This story, as some of you might recall, was inspired by these lyrics below. I took this story off for a while, during a very difficult time in my life, but it's back now, and there -will- be a sequel. It's called "Iron Maiden". Gotta love the theme of my titles. As always, I don't own the Magnificent Seven, though I might like to. Hope you enjoy the story I tweaked just slightly.

Hangman..hangman, could you hold it a little while.

I think I see my friends, riding many a mile.

So friends did you get a little silver, did you get some gold?

What did you get me, my dear friends, to keep me from the gallows pole?

The sky was cloudless, as it usually was in this thrice god-forsaken place; allowing the sun to beat down upon the multitude gathered to see one, swindling man hanged. Or hung...not even the knowledgeable, silver-tongued, fiend knew how to say it correctly. Of course, who could think of words, let alone grammar in this blasted, hellish heat? He didn't know if the insufferable climate was to punish him, or the mob, but he wasn't enjoying it in the least, nor the weather it foretold. This type of heat wave marked the coming of a massive and violent storm system, something he only knew of for his many years of constant travel, and the fact that his friends had taught him a thing or two in the little while they had all been partnered in one little town. He'd given up his gypsy ways, 'temporarily', or so he had claimed- all too much. That wasn't the way things worked out. He had actually stayed, and hadn't seen the point in stepping so much as a foot away from his friends and their mission...

Friends; this thought brought the card-playing caper up short. Friends? Those six men were no friends of his! They had believed some greasy, two-bit deputy over his own, infallible word! _A slight pause_ Usually... _another pause_ Alright fine, sometimes infallible..sheesh! His own mind was being incredibly hypercritical. Still, the seven of them had been friends, hadn't they? Or had his recent compatriots seen in him only a means to and end, so much like his own mother?

No more time to contemplate as a vicious shove sent him sprawling, gracelessly, to his knees upon the wooden platform of the gallows. The left pant leg tore, only adding insult upon injury. Not only had the posse' taken his freedom and the like, but they had seized him in his best clothing as well! Of course, indulging in vanity probably should not have been especially high on his list of things to do, but it was, and he was angry. For the love of...he'd already been beaten from Four Corners all the way to this backwards little cowtown in the middle of a place he had no memory of! The forming bruises on his body, and his swelling right eye could attest to that much, an eye that was swiftly swelling shut. He could say 'bye-bye' to his depth perception...if he'd been lucky enough to get his hands on a gun, as his had been confiscated and were in the hands of some brute he knew wasn't capable of taking proper care of the little beauties. On hands and knees, here he was, sweating; something he absolutely loathed, like the proverbial pig. Aching from only the Lord knew how many blows he had received, and suddenly, spittle splattered against his cheek, the less injured one. The audacity of these people! People he had sworn he'd never met- not that Larabee or the others had believed him. He hadn't seen this town before, had he? That sliver of doubt had been the only thing keeping him from fighting particularly hard, not that being surrounded by eighteen men allowed for much of a fight. Still, they had been acting so temperamental and horrid really..had he done what he was accused of?

_Well hell...cheat one town, you've cheated them all. They start looking the same after so many, Standish._

_**Oh, shut up**._

_You asked._

Jesus, Lord Almighty! He'd been reduced to talking to himself!

_Just wait until it's conversing with yourself in tongues even,_ piped up that particularly smart-ass side of himself.

Ezra only grumbled in response, wiping his pained and dampened cheek gingerly, not wanting to abuse a bruise.

_**Don't you dare...**_

The other part of him was snickering anyway. Closing his eyes and shaking his head, he was then slammed in the ribs, yet again, but a snake-skinned boot, whose toe was laced with silver. A heaved grunt and he was flat on the ground again, splintered wood snagging against shirt and skin alike. The boot belonged to the man who claimed Ezra P. Standish had played his father in a poker game, concerning the deed to a silver mine. Ezra had apparently lost, then went to the older man's room and shot him dead, stealing the deed, or some other such thing. It was all truly insanity, for one simple reason.

_**I never lose!**_

_Damn straight!_

_**Delighted to see we agree on something...**_

Ok, it was also likely that Ezra wouldn't have killed the old man to get the deed in the first place. He'd learned his lessons about mines a while back, besides-

_Mines mean labor_

_**Thank you ever so much**_

He was suddenly consumed with the urge to grin like an idiot for the sarcastic praise he had given to himself. Wait a minute...he _was_ an idiot.

_**Alright, who said that?**_

Silence.

Gasping for air, he tried to pick himself up off the platform. That didn't work out so well. Despite the internal 'smart-ass' he was already contending with, his body seemed unwilling to cooperate as well, having other ideas entirely as to the extent of his movements. He hadn't even been allowed to eat in the two days he's been dragged here, little water, so he shouldn't have been so surprised, or at least not so angry with his body for not performing up to its usual standards. However; sense simply wasn't on that 'To Do' list of his. Vanity yes, sense no.

"Heh. Flat on your face, Standish? That's where you belong."

Past the agony, and the humiliation, two things that one Ezra Standish did not suffer well, the man was able to pull himself up to one elbow and quirk a lacerated brow at the man speaking to him. A deadly, smug sneer was given, curling his marred facial features and giving him the hauntingly ugly glare of a true demon, as told in stories to frighten children. In the eye that was open; hatred and rage were read, both burning hotly as the man's chest heaved.

"Dear sir; please wait until my comrades-in-arms and I have regained our rattled wits, and they come to my aid. Perhaps my face has met with the dirt this day, but soon _my_ boot will meet with _your_ rear, and that worthless carcass you call a body will lay down with the worms until the end of eternity!" proclaimed the ever-cocky gambler.

The curious look he got gave him the impression that they didn't understand him, though he had spoken rather plainly and simply, for his own case anyway, and he could only shake his head.

**Do you really believe they're coming to save you?**

This voice...this voice in his head was dark and ominous, and unpromising.

_**Christ, I'm falling apart!**_

**Christ doesn't care!**

_Ouch._

Ezra groaned; both because he was in pain and couldn't do a damned thing about it, but also because insanity was appearing to be perilously close. The question remained though, did he think the others would come? His heart and gut clenched simultaneously. He wasn't sure. None of them had failed him before, despite the drawbacks in his own character. But; the unanimous looks that the six of them had given him as they had all stood within the confines of the saloon, with the rest of the patrons cleared out in the wake of the oncoming posse'- the looks they had given him when the charges had been brought forth, looks of disgust, betrayal, and disappointment, yet no surprise. All of this combined into one sorrowful glance that they had all given him, except JD, who had not even been able to look at him, let alone look him in the eye, as if he were ashamed of his association with Ezra. Needless to say, it had hurt.

**What did you expect? You're the scum of the Earth. You're a soulless, heartless, son-of-a-bitch! A bastard with no hope of redemption because you have demon's blood in you! You're a cheating black-guard, a man who feels no sympathy or mercy, only lustful greed!**

Every self-depricating word was like a lance of ice through his chest, freezing him from the inside out. He couldn't feel the men at his sides lift him to his feet and positioning him just 'so', so that the noose fell about his neck without effort. He gave no fight, no words. He'd given up, because he had defeated himself. The dark one in his head was right. He wasn't worth a second thought, let alone a rescue. Dismayed as he was at the reality of it, how could he change what he, in essence, was? He couldn't, and he would die, hanging, with this crowd of romans watching him swing. The thought was disgusting, but no less than what he deserved, correct? The coarse rope fell around his neck, and his eyes looked out, past the people, their green depths searching for something..anything on the plains that were being enveloped by the black thunder heads. His last hope was quickly fading into nothing, and the others inside his mind had gone silent. He blinked.

_**Wait just one, god-damned minute!**_

His whole being seemed to jump to attention as his mind caught up with what his eyes were looking at. In the distance, far off, he saw six tiny figures, racing toward them all. That fading hope began to swell with a ferocity that rivaled even his poor eye, his ruined face alighting with it. A quickening heart, a pounding pulse, tingles along his spine, all for the culmination of this one moment. The moment in which he found that his faith had not been misplaced. Lightning licked the deadly clouds, giving the rider's approach the effect of something altogether evil, like demon warriors, not avenging angels as one might expect. The noose was pulled taut, but Ezra lifted one finger to halt the men. He tapped the shoulder of the man with the snake-skinned boots, and then pointed to the darkening horizon. Those shapeless figures were becoming hell-bent riders on frothing horses, pushing their mounts to the breaking point and beyond. The whole of the gathering turned to peer at whatever it was that Standish was pointing out, and thunder smacked itself into their eardrums in a fantastic fashion. A collective shiver, beginning at the farthest reaches of the crowd and ending at the men who held onto Ezra, took over as shadows descended upon the town.

Ezra could only chuckle inanely to himself. He was everything the dark part of himself had claimed, even what the 'smart-ass' had added, but he wasn't alone in his faults, nor was he merely the sum of them. He and the rest of the Seven, they were angels none of them, they were men. Men; with black pasts and scarred souls, men who kept to each other no matter the circumstances, men with a greater purpose. The sun was blotted out entirely, and a chill blast of wind swept over them all, fading into a warning breeze whose whispers mingled with the erratic and frightened whispers of those in the town itself. They began to disperse, the jingling of spurs on boots, and watches, and ladies' bags clinking making itself heard. They were no longer so anxious to see a truly innocent man die.

_**Hah! I'm innocent, damnit! I'm blameless of this ridiculous crime and they know it!**_

'They' were the six men he rode with, the only six opinions he gave a feck about. Chris Larabee; probably the blackest soul of them all. Vin Tanner; whose shoulders were overburdened with a crime _he_ didn't commit. Josiah Sanchez; an ex-preacher with a heart plagued by his own, mysterious sins. Buck Wilmington; whose tainted birth had done little to nothing to diminish his lusty character. Nathan Jackson; a healer full of guilt for the hatred he bore those who persecuted him without mercy. Last, but not least, JD Dunne; a boy who lost his faith and innocence when he lost his mother. Each of them now in service to Four Corners, and the stalwart Seminole village upon occasion, seeking atonement, and just maybe, attaining it one day.

The men holding Standish were stunned into inaction until the snake-skin booted man began bellowing orders at the lot of them. He shoved one of them aside, leaving the left half of Ezra to go limp, delightfully encumbering the other lug who struggled to keep him upright, lest he die too soon or some other such nonsense.

"They can't save him from this distance! Pull it boys!"

Even as the lever was pulled, to let the trap door beneath him loose, Ezra was smiling. It didn't matter if he died or not, they had come for him, they believed and trusted in him. He fell sharply, but the fall wasn't long enough that he might break his neck. Oh no, they had wanted him to suffer and choke. Which he was doing, the smile disappearing. He was going to die, and he was afraid. How absurd a thing, for Ezra Standish to fear anyone or anything when he most decidedly acted like he did not. However; he didn't regret a single decision that had brought him to this place and time, though he was about to meet with a rather ugly end. Had he not stayed, he would not have been honored by knowing these other men, men that were in fact, his friends. Not that they had to, but they had just irrevocably proven themselves to him, as friends, and that they were, was all that mattered to him. His vision failed, as did his breathing.

Pounding hooves, shouts and swearing, savage thunder and a pealing scream were the last things he heard...as well as a single rifle shot, before all was lost to darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Eyes of jade fluttered open to the brightening sun, streaming in through an unshuttered window, as well as a friendly face...if the stern, angry, and rather frightening visage of one Christopher Larabee could be considered friendly. Those icy bullets the man called eyes drove into Ezra, in the most penetrating manner he was capable of, and the gambler blinked once more in confusion. What had he done?

_**Terrific...either we've been saved for a -private- hanging party, or we're in purgatory; this coming from the ominous voice, much chastened under Larabee's scrutiny.**_

_Party?_

"I nevah was much of one for parties..." muttered the southern gentleman, in weariness, not realizing he spoke aloud.

Chris's look became concerned. "Nathan! He's awake and he's talkin' funny!" came the exuberant voice of JD, who suddenly popped up on Ezra's other side, beaming face and all. Ezra tried to pull himself into a sitting position, but huge hands grabbed hold of his shoulders immediately, and shoved him back down, pulling the blankets up to his chin!

"No you don't Ez. You just lay still like and let Nathan take a gander at you."

The massive hands belonged to Josiah, of course, but the admonishing voice came from Buck, of all people. Ezra frowned instinctively, as he hated to be treated like a four year old; but as he looked around the room, planning something scathing in response, his eye was caught by the softer gaze of Vin. There was something in those eyes that held his tongue still, something serious. A similar look from JD..then Chris? What was this? He finally identified it as silent pleading, an asking for forgiveness. Before, again, he had a chance to say a word, which was probably their dastardly plan all along, despite their gentle ways and apologetic tones, Nathan stormed in with a tray of food and drink. The healer made him swallow some awful concoction that would make him 'feel better in no time', and then given cool, clean water. Ezra would have downed the entire glass, had Nathan not stayed his hand in the middle, telling him to take it easy. Ezra took a breath and nodded. He'd only been thirsty for...two, three days? He would be fine...he would be. That much, he was sure of. His meal...was...mush.

_**Oh...goodie...**_

_Shut up! They went to some...effort..here._

"Dare I ask which of you, talented culinary artists, prepared this...congealed gunge?" "It's oatmeal!" proclaimed JD, with indignance.

Ezra struggled to keep a straight face, bit it was no use. A smile, a grin really, split his face and he laughed quietly. "Of course it is." Laughter filled the room in fact, the sounds colored in relief. JD had forgotten his injured dignity, and joined in. It lasted a good, long while, lifting each of their hearts a little...maybe only a minute amount, but it was enough, more than enough. Nathan finally began ushering everyone out, saying that a certain; pain-in-the-ass-cardsharp, needed his rest. This, of course, was after a quick examination of a badly bruised neck, and some of the other marks that had bloomed darkly over his bare torso since he had been asleep. Chris was the last to head for the door, as none of the others were foolhardy enough to usher - that- man, anywhere. He stopped for a moment, half in, half out, glaring at the scarred wood of the doorframe and chipping at the peeling paint with his blunt fingernails. He was going to say something, and Ezra averted his own gaze out the window, and looked over Four Corners. For a long time, there was only silence. Chris wasn't going to be the one to break it, so the gambler gathered his own courage.

"The rifle shot I heard...?"

"Vin..." Chris answered, without hesitation, even a hint of pride in his voice. Ezra had to smile a little, shaking his head and falling quiet again. Of course it had been Mr. Tanner who had shot the rope, in the nick of time. Among whatever horrors the others had wrought on behalf of their fallen friend...because they -were- friends.

"I'm sorry." came Chris, so quickly and so gruffly, that Ezra didn't know if he had heard the man correctly. Ezra almost sighed, but didn't.

There he goes again...taking all the blame onto himself, as if he has to answer for whatever we did, are doing, or are going to do.

Ezra could only nod to himself, in agreement with such an assessment. He didn't know which part of him had seen it proper to be so perceptive this morning. Finally, composed, Ezra beamed tiredly. "Why, Mr. Larabee...did you happen to miss my informative and unfathomable diatribes?" he rasped, his voice affected from the damned rope as well.

Chris snorted in amusement and rolled his eyes heavenward. Whether he was cursing the Lord, or giving thanks, Ezra would never know. However; a small, yet genuine smile touched his normally severe mouth, and those steely eyes seemed to soften, if only a trifle. He looked at Ezra for a split second, with real emotion, though it was masked in the next instant. The swindler didn't miss it, for all that he was pretending not to pay attention.

_Of course, you daft donkey...everything's fine between us._

"Yeah, that was it." said Chris. The tall, lean man made a move to head on out, and close the door behind him, but Ezra had something on his mind, something that was nagging at him. "Mr. Larabee..."

The gunslinger turned and shouldered himself back in, leaning against the doorframe. He waited, his look wise, as if he knew exactly what was coming.

"What made you gentlemen change your minds?"

The black-clad man actually laughed outright, shaking his head.

"Hell, Ezra. We've known you a while now, and while there ain't a whole lot we know -about- you..we know one thing for certain. You're the luckiest, or the cheating-est son-of-a-bitch alive, and you don't lose!"

_Damn straight!_

Ezra merely chuckled and nodded, as Chris took himself out, to allow him to rest. Larabee closed the door, and Ezra settled back once more, to close his eyes, knowing when he awoke, he would be surrounded by the familiar bickering of the six people he cared about, and the town he had come to call home. As he drifted to sleep, every single fiber in his being rang true with a single thought.

_Well...at least we all can agree about something..._

The End


End file.
